The lush world building of Children of Blood and Bone meets the sweeping scale of Strange the Dreamer in this captivating epic YA fantasy debut.

Born into a family of powerful witchdoctors, Arrah yearns for magic of her own. But each year she fails to call forth her ancestral powers, while her ambitious mother watches with growing disapproval.

There’s only one thing Arrah hasn’t tried, a deadly last resort: trading years of her own life for scraps of magic. Until the Kingdom’s children begin to disappear, and Arrah is desperate to find the culprit.

She uncovers something worse. The long-imprisoned Demon King is stirring. And if he rises, his hunger for souls will bring the world to its knees… unless Arrah pays the price for the magic to stop him.

Inspired by tales of folk magic in her own community, Rena Barron spins a darkly magical tale perfect for fans of Three Dark Crowns or Shadow and Bone, about a girl caught between gods, monsters, and her own mother’s schemes.

KINGDOM OF SOULS is a story set in a rich fantasy world with a likable protagonist and a story that is riveting from beginning to end. Threads of folklore and creation myths are weaved throughout as the characters take on an impossible quest to save their world. Recommended to fantasy fans.

I easily fell right into this story. I loved the rich descriptions and cultures. There were so many parallels between real life, history and religion and this storybook world. The writing was really well done, with fully fleshed main characters and some fun minor characters. Arrah and Rudjek are easy to cheer on being star-crossed in more ways than one. The romance was sweet for the most part (until towards the end), which I really enjoyed. I really loved Arrah's relationship with her father and grandmother. I also really loved the traditions of the tribes. The villains and the meddling gods, or orishas, played their parts well.

I only had a few issues with this story. There were some transitions between scenes and plot points that didn't quite work for me or felt incomplete. That might be due to the advanced copy though. I also was hoping that the romance wouldn't cross the line into more than kissing, but of course it went there and I'd rather it not have. The POV change to the orishas was a little confusing as sometimes there were more than one speaking but you're left to figure out who was saying what. The second half of the story was really depressing and violent, and I would have liked a little more something to balance that.

In the end, was it what I wished for? This is a rich fantasy world with likable characters who readers will want to cheer on. It's also gritty and dark with an ending that is left unresolved. I'm curious to see what will happen next.

Content: Quite a bit of violence, some of it quite gory, references to a gay couple (but no detailed love scenes), one faded love scene and references to it.Source: I received a complimentary ARC through Fantastic Flying Book Club, which did not require a positive review nor affect it in any way.

Kingdom of Souls Quiz

Do you want to know what magic power you would have in Kingdom of Souls?

PROLOGUE

Be still, Little Priestess.

My father kneels before me with a string of teeth threaded
between his fingers. They shine like polished pearls, and I square my shoulders
and stand a little taller to make him proud. The dis- tant echo of the djembe drums
drowns out his words, but it doesn’t tame the twinkle in his eyes as he drapes
the teeth around my neck. Tonight I become a true daughter of Tribe Aatiri.

Magic of all colors flutters in the air as gentle as
wingbeats. I can’t be still when it dances on my father’s dark skin like
lightning bugs. It flits along his jaw and leaps onto his nose. My hand shoots
out to catch an ember of gold, but it slips through my fingers. I gig- gle, and
he laughs too.

Girls gossip as their mothers fix their kaftans and bone
charms. For every one the magic touches, it skips two, like the rest of us are
invisible. My chest tightens, watching it go to others when it’s never come to
me—not even once.

The few girls who speak Tamaran ask me what it’s like living
so far away in the Almighty Kingdom. They say that I am not a true Aatiri
because my mother is not of the tribe. Something twinges in my belly, for there
is truth in their words.

I hold my head high as my father straightens my collar. He’s
the only man in the tent, and the other girls whisper about that too. I don’t
care what they say; I’m glad he’s here. “Why doesn’t magic come to me, Father?”

The question comes out too loud, and silence falls upon the
tent. The other girls and their mothers stare at me as if I’ve said some- thing
bad. “Don’t worry, daughter,” he says, folding the sleeves of my
orange-and-blue kaftan, which matches his own. “It will come in due time.”

“But when?” I stomp.

It isn’t fair that many of the Aatiri children younger than
me have magic already. In Tamar, I’m the only one among my friends who can see
magic at all, but here, it flocks to the other children and they can make it do
things. I can’t.

“Maybe never, little ewaya,” says the oldest girl in
accented Tamaran. She glares at me and I wrinkle my nose at her. I’m not a baby,
and she’s wrong. It will come.

The girl’s mother clucks her tongue and fusses at her in
Aatiri. Her words slide over my ears without meaning, like all the strange and
beautiful languages in the markets back home.

“Even if the magic never comes,” my father says, “you’ll
still be my Little Priestess.”

I poke my tongue out at the girl. That’ll teach her not to
be so mean.

Another girl asks why my mother isn’t here. “She has more
important things to do,” I answer, remembering how my father had begged her to
come.

“Why the sad face?” my father asks, squeezing my cheeks.
“Ime- byé is a time of celebration. Tonight, you begin the long journey into
adulthood.”

The djembe drums stop. I bite my lip, and the other girls
startle. It’s time to go stand in front of the whole tribe so the chieftain can
bless us. But for once, my legs still as the other girls hurry from the tent
with their mothers.

“I want to go home, Father,” I whisper as the last girl
leaves. Some of the light fades from his eyes. “We’ll go home soon, okay?”

“I want to go home now,” I say, a little stronger.

He frowns. “Don’t you want to take part in Imebyé?”

I shake my head hard enough to make my bone charms rattle.
My father comes to his feet. “How about we just watch the ceremony together?”

The chieftain walks into the tent and I tuck myself against
my father’s side. Her silver kaftan sweeps about her ankles and stands out
against her midnight skin. Salt-and-pepper locs coil on top of her head. “Do my
son and granddaughter plan to take part in a cer- emony they traveled fourteen
days to attend?” she asks, her deep voice ringing in the tent.

My father wraps his arm around my shoulders. “Not this
year.” The chieftain nods as if satisfied. “May I speak to my granddaughter
alone, Oshhe?”

My father exchanges a look with her that I don’t understand.
“If it’s okay with Arrah.”

I swallow. “Okay.”

He squeezes my shoulder before leaving the tent. “I’ll save
you a spot up front.”

The chieftain flashes me a gap-toothed grin as she squats on
the floor. “Sit with me.”

The tent flap rustles in my father’s wake. My legs ache to
follow, but the sight of the great Aatiri chieftain sitting on the floor roots
me in place. I sit across from her as she raises one palm to the ceiling.
Sparks of yellow and purple and pink magic drift to her hand.

“Some people can pull magic from the fabric of the world.”
Grandmother watches the colors dancing on her fingertips. “Some can coax magic
to come with rituals and spells. Many can’t call magic at all. It’s a gift from
Heka to the people of the five tribes—a gift of himself—but it’s different for
everyone.”

She offers me the magic, and I lean in closer. I hope this
time it will come to me, but it disappears upon touching my hand. “I can see
it,” I say, my shoulders dropping, “but it doesn’t answer me.”

“That is rare indeed,” she says. “Not unheard of, but rare.”

The feather strokes of Grandmother’s magic press against my
forehead. It itches, and I shove my hands between my knees to keep from
scratching. “It seems you have an even rarer gift.” Her eye- brows knit
together as if she’s stumbled upon a puzzle. “I’ve never seen a mind I couldn’t
touch.”

She’s only trying to make me feel better, but it doesn’t
mean anything if I can’t call magic like real witchdoctors—like my parents,
like her.

Grandmother reaches into her pocket and removes a handful of
bones. “These belonged to my ancestors. I use them to draw more magic to
me—more than I could ever catch on my fingertips. When I focus on what I want
to see, they show me. Can you try?”

She drops the bones into my hand. They’re small and shiny in
the light of the burning jars of oils set on stools beneath the canopy. “Close
your eyes,” Grandmother says. “Let the bones speak to you.” Cold crawls up my
arm and my heart pounds. Outside, the djembe drums start again, beating a slow,
steady rhythm that snatches my breath away. The truth is written on
Grandmother’s face, a truth I already know. The bones don’t speak.

Charlatan.

The word echoes in my mind. It’s the name my mother calls
the street peddlers in the market, the ones who sell worthless good luck charms
because their magic is weak. What if she thinks I’m a charlatan too?

The bones fly from my hand and scatter on the floor between
us. They land every which way, some close to others and some far apart. My eyes
burn as I stare at them, straining to hear the ancestors’ message over the
djembe drums.

“Do you see or hear anything?” Grandmother asks. I blink and
tears prick my eyes. “No.”

Grandmother smiles, collecting the bones. “Not everyone’s
magic shows so early. For some, the magic doesn’t abide until they’re nearly
grown. But when it comes so late, it’s very strong. Perhaps you will be a
powerful witchdoctor one day.”

Tears slip down my cheeks as I run out of the tent without
waiting for Grandmother. I don’t want to be a powerful witchdoctor one day—I
want magic to come now. The heat of the desert night hits me, and my bare feet
slap against the hard clay. Sparks of magic drift from the sky into the other
children’s outstretched arms, but some of it flits away. I dart through the
crowd and follow the wayward magic, determined to catch some of my own.

It weaves through the mud-brick huts like a winged serpent,
always staying two beats ahead of me. Beyond the tents, the drums become a
distant murmur. I stop when the magic disappears. It’s darker here, colder, and
the scent of blood medicine burns my nose. Someone’s performed a ritual in the
shadows. I should turn back, run away. The wind howls a warning, but I move a
little closer. Fingers like crooked tree roots latch on to my ankle.

I yank my leg back, and the hand falls away. My heart beats
louder than the djembe drums as I remember all the scary stories about demons.
During a lesson, a scribe once warned: Don’t get caught in the shadows, for
a demon waits to steal your soul. The younger the soul, the sweeter the feast. A
shiver cuts down my arms at the thought, but I remind myself that those are
only tales to scare children. I’m too old to believe them.

It isn’t until the outline of a woman comes into focus that
I breathe again. Magic lights on her skin, and she writhes and thrashes against
the sand. Her mouth twists into an ugly scream. I don’t know what to make of
her; she looks both young and old, both alive and dead, and in pain.

“Give me a hand,” says the woman, voice slurred. “I can get
my father,” I offer as I help her sit up.

Her brown skin is ashen and sweaty. “Don’t bother.” She
wipes dirt from her lips. “I only need to rest a spell.”

“What are you doing out here?” I ask, kneeling beside her.

“I could ask the same, but I know the answer.” A flicker of
life returns to her vacant eyes. “There is only one reason a child does not
take part in Imebyé.”

She smiles, revealing a mouth of rotten teeth. “Magic has a
price if you’re willing to pay.”

CHAPTER 1

Every year, the five tribes of Heka gather for the Blood
Moon Fes- tival, and I tell myself that this will be my year. The year
that wipes the slate clean. The year that makes up for the waiting, the
longing, the frustration. The year that magic lights on my skin, bestowing upon
me the gift. When it happens, my failures will wash away and I’ll have magic of
my own.

I’m sixteen, near grown by both Kingdom and tribal
standards. My time is running out. No daughter or son of any tribe has come
into their gifts beyond my age. If it doesn’t happen this year, it won’t
happen at all.

I swallow hard and rub my sweaty palms against the grass as
the djembe drums begin their slow and steady rhythm. With the tribes camped in
the valley, there are some thirty thousand people here. We form rings around
the sacred circle near the Temple of Heka, and the fire in the center ebbs and
flows to the beat. The drummers march around the edge of the circle, their
steps in sync. The five tribes look as if they have nothing in common, but they
move as one, to honor Heka, the god of their lands.

Magic clings to the air, so thick that it stings my skin. It
dances in the night sky above endless rows of tents quilted in vibrant colors.
My tunic sticks to my back from the heat of so many bodies in tight quarters.
The sharp smell in the valley reminds me of the East Mar- ket on its busiest
days. My feet tap a nervous beat while everyone else claps along with the
music.

As Grandmother’s guests, Essnai, Sukar, and I sit on
cushions in a place of honor close to the sacred circle. It isn’t because we’re
spe- cial. We’re quite the opposite: ordinary and outsiders at that. Some
people glare at us to make sure we don’t forget. I wish the looks didn’t bother
me, but they only raise more doubts. They make me question if I belong here. If
I deserve another chance after years of failing.

“I suppose your gawking means the magic is coming,” says
Sukar, wrinkling his nose. The tattoos on his forearms and across his shaved
head are glowing, so he knows as well as I that the magic is already here.
“Either that, or you’re missing someone back home . . .”

A flush of warmth creeps up my neck. We both know who he
means. I try to imagine Rudjek here, perched on a cushion in his fancy elara.
He’d stand out worse than me and love every moment of it. The thought brings a
smile to my face and eases my nerves a little. Sukar, Essnai, and I made the
journey from Tamar with the caravan, crossing the Barat Mountains at the
western edge of the Almighty Kingdom to reach the tribal lands. Some two
hundred people had come, but many more Tamarans of tribal blood hadn’t
bothered. “We should’ve left you in the Kingdom too,” I tell Sukar, casting him
a scathing look. “Some of us are respectful enough to pay attention to the
ceremony, so please stop distracting me.”

“Well, if it’s a distraction you need . . .” He winks at me.
“Back me up, Essnai,” I beg. “Tell him to pay attention.”

She sits cross-legged on the opposite side of Sukar, her
face stony as always. My father brewed a blood medicine to color her hair last
night, and the shock of red looks good against her ebony skin. As usual, she’s
caught eyes, although she never seems to notice. Instead Essnai looks like a
lovesick puppy without her ama Kira at her side. She shrugs, watching
the drummers. “He won’t listen anyway.”

I sigh and turn back to the sacred circle. The moon has
settled into a crimson hue, deeper red than only an hour before. In Tamar,
we’re taught that the moon orisha, Koré, cries blood for her fallen brethren on
this night. Five thousand years ago, she and her twin brother, Re’Mec, the sun
orisha, led an army to end the Demon King’s insatiable thirst for souls. But
the tribes believe the blood moon represents their connection to Heka. For it
is only during this time that he returns to give his gift to future
generations.

Even from this distance, the fire draws beads of sweat from
my forehead. Or at least, I pretend it’s the fire that has me on edge. I wish I
could be like Essnai and Sukar. They don’t care about not having magic, but
it’s different for them. Neither of their parents have the gift. They don’t
have to live up to the legacy of two promi- nent bloodlines.

When I think of the other reason I’m here—the
tests—my belly twists in knots. The drums stop, the sound as sudden as the calm
before a storm, and my muscles wind even tighter. The musicians stand almost as
still as the statues in the scholars’ district in Tamar. Silence falls upon the
crowd. The moment we’ve been waiting for has finally come, but it stretches a
beat too long to spite me. In that space of time, the what-ifs run through my
mind. What if it doesn’t happen? What if it does, but my magic isn’t
strong like my parents’? What if I’m destined to become a charlatan peddling
good luck charms?

Would that be so bad?

I draw my knees to my chest, remembering the woman at Ime-
byé writhing in the sand. Magic has a price if you’re willing to pay. Her
words ring in my ears, the words of a charlatan, the words of someone desperate
for magic. I push her out of my head. There’s still a chance for me—still time
for Heka to give me his gift.

A hum rises from behind me and I crane my neck to see the
witchdoctors weaving through the masses. They will perform the dance to start
the month-long celebration. The blood moon casts them in eerie crimson shadows.
Save for their voices, the entire val- ley quiets. No whispers, no children
fooling around, only the whistle of wind and the rustle of feet in the grass. I
want so badly to be in their ranks, to belong, to measure up to my family’s
legacy. Instead, I’m stuck on the side watching—always watching.

For the ceremony, seven witchdoctors stand for each of the
five tribes. Under their chieftains, the other six make up the edam, the
tribal council. Although many of the tribal people have Heka’s grace—his
magic—witchdoctors stand apart. The chieftains gifted them the title because
they show a mastery of magic above others. Of all the tribal people, only a
hundred or so have earned this prestigious appointment. They are the ones that
the others revere and the ones I envy the most.

As the witchdoctors grow closer, their chants rattle in my
bones. What would it be like to command magic with the ease of taking a breath?
To reach into the air to collect it on one’s fingertips, or walk in the spirit
world? To not only see magic, to tame it, to bend it, to be magical?

First come the Tribe Litho witchdoctors: four women and
three men. Their tribe lies southwest of the Temple of Heka in the wood- lands.
White dust covers their bodies and vests of rawhide. Their intricate crowns,
made of metal and bone and colorful beads, jangle in the breeze. The ground
shifts beneath their feet, moving as gentle as ocean waves, gliding them to the
sacred circle, which only the edam are allowed to enter.

As the procession draws closer, the djembe drummers start
again, moving away from the circle to settle in an open spot on the grass.
Their slow beat surges faster when the Litho chieftain enters the sacred
circle.

Tribe Kes comes next—the smallest of the five tribes, whose
lands border the valley to the northwest. Their diaphanous skin and
near-colorless eyes remind me of the Northern people. Two are as white as
alabaster and their bright clothes stand out in stark con- trast. With each
step they take, lightning cuts across the sky and sparks dance on their skin.
They fan pouches of smoke that burns my nose. It smells of bloodroot, ginger,
and eeru pepper: a cleansing remedy I’ve helped my father make in his shop at
home.

The tribe from the mountains south of the Temple arrives
next. The Zu witchdoctors leap above our heads, their feet supported by air.
Tattoos cover their bodies and they wear crowns of antlers, some curved, some
hooked, some large, some small. Some fashioned out of slick metal with edges
sharp enough to sever a finger. With one misstep, an antler could fall upon the
crowd, and it wouldn’t be pretty. I tuck my fingers between my knees just in
case.

Sukar nudges me, a lopsided grin on his face. His family is
Zu, and although he’s got at least two dozen tattoos, he doesn’t have nearly as
many as the edam from his tribe. “As always, the most impressive of the
five,” he whispers.

I swat Sukar’s arm to shush him at the same time Essnai
slaps the back of his head. He winces but knows better than to protest. It’s
the Aatiri’s turn, which Essnai and I are anticipating the most. Even with her
short-cropped hair, there’s no denying that her high cheek- bones and wide-set
eyes mark her as an Aatiri. We’d become friends after she’d found me in the
desert at Imebyé with the charlatan.

Relief washes over me as Grandmother steps from the shadows,
leading Tribe Aatiri. I hadn’t expected anyone else, but she’s the first
familiar face among the edam. I sit up taller, trying to look like even
a shadow of the great Aatiri chieftain.

The Aatiri do not walk or leap, for clouds of magic carry
them. Grandmother’s silver locs coil on top of her head like a crown, and she
wears a half dozen necklaces of teeth. The Aatiri are tall and lean with
prominent cheekbones and wiry hair braided like mine. Their skin is as
beautiful as the hour of ösana.

My father is the last of them to enter the circle, and my
heart soars. He’s tall and proud and magical, more so than any of the edam aside
from Grandmother. He stands upon his cloud with his traditional staff in hand
and a knife carved of bone in the other.

He is an honorary Aatiri edam as he doesn’t live with
his people, but they don’t deny that he’s one of the most powerful among them.

I’m not foolish enough to think that if . . . when .
. . my magic comes I’ll be as talented as he is. But seeing him fills me with
pride.

The Mulani come last. They live the closest to the Temple of
Heka.

It was a Mulani woman Heka revealed his presence to when he
first descended from the stars a thousand years ago. Now the Mulani chieftain
serves as his voice. The position would belong to my mother had she not left
and never looked back. When she was only fourteen, the tribe named her their
next chieftain and emissary to Heka because she’d shown such remarkable powers.

I could never live up to that legend either, but it doesn’t
stop me from wanting to.

Unlike the witchdoctors of the other tribes, who vary in
gen- der, Mulani witchdoctors are all women. I cover my eyes before the flashes
of light that always come when they enter the sacred circle. Sukar curses under
his breath because he’s too busy not paying attention to remember. From
the groaning around me, he isn’t the only one. When their auras cool, the
Mulani stand facing the crowd. They have broad shoulders, curvy bodies, and
skin ranging from deep brown to alabaster. My amber eyes and some of my color
come from them, while my lean build favors the Aatiri.

“I speak for Heka.” The Mulani chieftain’s words echo in the
valley, silencing all. “I speak for the mother and father of magic. I speak for
the one who gave of himself when the orishas withheld magic from mortal kind. I
speak for he who has no beginning and no end.”

The Mulani chieftain is my mother’s first cousin, and her
voice rings with authority. Almost as much authority as my mother’s:
Arti is soft-spoken, but she commands as much respect in the Almighty Kingdom
as her cousin does in the tribal lands. I tell myself I don’t mind that she’s
not here. It isn’t so different from how things are at home. There, she spends
most of her time at the Almighty Temple, where she and the seers serve the
orishas. When my mother left the tribal lands, she adopted the gods of the
Kingdom too.

When I was younger, I begged my mother to spend more time
with me, but she was so busy even then. Always busy or unavail- able or
unhappy—especially about my lack of magic. A pang of resentment settles in my
chest. If I’m honest, a part of me still wishes things could be different
between us.

“For a thousand years Heka has come to us at the start of
every blood moon,” the Mulani chieftain says. “So it will be again. On this
night we gather in worship so that he may show favor to our people. We shall
share our kas with him so that he can look into our souls and judge us
worthy.”

Anticipation quickens my heartbeat. Every year children from
the very young to sixteen come into their powers after Heka’s visit. This year
has to be my turn—before I’m too old and it’s too late. Magic will stop my
cousins from looking at me like I don’t belong.

Magic will finally make my mother proud of me.

After the Mulani chieftain has delivered her speech, the
dance begins. The witchdoctors move around the fire, all thirty-five of them,
chanting in their native tongues. Their songs fit into an intri- cate pattern
that’s at once odd and beautiful. The ceremony will go on for hours, and the
drummers adjust their tempo to match the edam’s rhythm.

Farther back from the sacred circle, campfires crop up
between the tents. The smells of brew and roasted meat fill the air. People
pass wooden bowls through the crowd, and when one reaches me, I take a sniff
that burns my nose. I recoil before I can stop myself.

“You of all people should be used to a little blood
medicine,” says Sukar, his voice smug.

“I’ll take the next pass,” I say, shoving the bowl into his
hands. He laughs, then takes a dramatic gulp.

Someone thrusts another bowl into my hands, and I almost
drop it when my gaze lands on Grandmother. She’s broken ranks and stepped out
of the sacred circle. Now she towers above me, and my breath hitches in my
throat. No edam has ever left the circle during the dance.

“Drink, Little Priestess.”

Her voice carries on a secret wind, loud and clear despite
the noise from the crowd, the curses, the dirty looks. It’s only a pet name when
Oshhe calls me that, but there’s weight in Grandmother’s words. She looks down
at me, hopeful and hesitant, as she studies my face.

I’m not a priestess. I’m only going to disappoint her.

Unable to refuse, I take a sip. Heat trails across my tongue
and down my throat. It tastes herbal and metallic and rotten. I clench my
stomach to keep from gagging. Grandmother nods, takes the bowl, and passes it
to Sukar, who swallows hard. “Thank you, Honored Chieftain,” he says, bobbing
his head to her. He looks surprised that she’s here too. None of the other edam
have left the sacred circle.

“Have you been practicing?” Grandmother asks me with a
toothy grin.

This is the real reason that I’ve been on edge all night.
Each year at the Blood Moon Festival, Grandmother tests whether I have magic,
and each year I fail.

“Yes,” I stutter as the medicine starts to take hold.

I don’t tell her that for all my practicing, with Oshhe and
alone, nothing has come of it.

“Tomorrow we will talk more,” Grandmother says.

Next to me Sukar falls on his face in the grass as the blood
medi- cine takes him first. Essnai rolls him on his side with her foot. A rush
of warmth spreads through my body and my tongue loosens. “I still don’t have
magic,” I blurt out without meaning to, but I’m too drowsy to feel embarrassed.

Grandmother starts to say something else but stops herself.
A pang flutters in my stomach. I can’t read her expression and wonder what the
ancestors have shown her in my future. In all these years, she’s never told me.
“Our greatest power lies not in our magic, but in our hearts, Little
Priestess.”

She talks in riddles like all the tribal people. Sometimes I
don’t mind the way she and Oshhe try to soothe over my worries about not having
magic. Sometimes it’s infuriating. They don’t know what it’s like to feel you
don’t belong, to feel you’re not worthy. To not measure up to a mother who all
the Kingdom admires.

Before I can think of something to say, the blood medicine
lulls me into a state of peace. The burning in my throat cools into a
smothering heat, and my heartbeat throbs in my ears. Behind Grandmother, the
other edam move at an incredible speed. Their faces blur and their
bodies leave trails of mist that connect them to one another. Their chants
intensify. Before long, most people lie in trances—Essnai, the elders, almost
the entirety of the five tribes.

The djembe drums fall silent, and the witchdoctors’ song
echoes in the valley.

This is wrong. I don’t belong in the sacred circle. Only the
edam, and honored witchdoctors like my father. Never someone like me—
without magic, an outsider.

I shouldn’t be here, but I can’t remember whether I mean in
the circle, or in the tribal lands. My mind is too foggy to think straight, but
I’m warm inside as I join the dance.

Magic swirls in the air. It’s purple and pink and yellow and
black and blue. It’s all colors, tangling and curling around itself. It brushes
against my skin, and then I am two places at once, as if the bonds that tether
my ka to my body have loosened. No. I’m all places. Is this what it’s
like to have magic, to feel it, to wield it? Please, Heka, bless me with
this gift.

One by one, the witchdoctors fall into a trance and drop to
the ground too. There is no sound save for the crackling of the fires set
around camp. The Mulani chieftain—my cousin—sweeps past me, her steps as silent
as starlight. She’s the only other person still awake.

“Wait,” I call after her. “What’s happening?”

She doesn’t answer me. Instead she climbs up the Temple
steps and disappears inside. Something heavy pulls against my legs when I try
to follow her.

I glance down and my breath catches at the sight of my body
lying beneath me. I’m standing with my feet sunk to the ankles in my own belly.
I gasp and my physical body mimics me, chest rising sharply, eyes wide. Is
everyone else’s ka awake too? I can’t see them.

Can they see me? I try to move again, but the same strong
pull keeps me rooted in place.

My ka holds on to my body with an iron grip—a chain
around my ankles. I wonder how I can let go—and if I want to. According to my
father, untethering one’s ka is tricky business. Only the most tal-
ented witchdoctors can leave their bodies. Even they rarely do it, for fear of
wandering too far and not finding their way back. The blood medicine alone
couldn’t make this happen. Grandmother must have performed some magic when she
pulled me into the sacred circle, so I’d have a better chance at being seen by
Heka. That has to be it. My body calls me back. The call is a gentle beckoning
at first, then grows in intensity. My eyelids flutter and I fight to stay aware
as bright ribbons of light set the night sky on fire. I fall to my knees, the
pull growing stronger, the source of the light drawing closer. It’s both warm
and cold, both beautiful and frightening, both serene and violent. It knows me
and something inside me knows it. It’s the mother and father of magic. It’s
Heka.

He’s going to bestow his grace upon me.

I can’t believe it’s happening after all these years. My
body lets out a sigh of relief.

My mother would be proud if I showed a sliver of magic. Just
a sliver. I shut my eyes against the intense light and let his power wash over
my skin, his touch as gentle as brushstrokes. It tastes sweet on my tongue, and
I laugh as it pulses through my ka.

Then the light disappears, and I’m left empty as the magic
flees my body.

About the Author

Rena Barron grew up in small-town Alabama where stories of magic and adventure sparked her imagination. After penning her first awful poem in middle school, she graduated to writing short stories and novels by high school. Rena loves all things science fiction, ghosts, and superheroes. She’s a self-proclaimed space nerd. When she’s not writing, she can be found reading or brushing up on her French. Follow her at @renathedreamer and renabarron.com.

Rena prefers not to be tagged in reviews to save her sanity.

She is represented by Suzie Townsend at New Leaf Literary & Media, Inc.

Subscribe to my newsletter

Featured Post

It's time to sign up for the Tackle Your TBR Read-a-thon! For those of you who have participated in previous years, this ...

About Tressa

Welcome to Wishful Endings! This is where I geek out about all things bookish (mostly YA, but also Romance, Christian Romance, LDS Romance, and occasionally other genres and hobby titles)! I always include content info in my reviews so you know what you're diving into. I enjoy helping publishers and authors promote their books as co-owner of Prism Book Tours. Outside of blogging, I'm a total Marvel geek, Austen lover, and enjoy hanging with the family (husband, four kiddos, and pup).

Categories

FTC Disclosure

Please be aware that I receive complimentary books from authors, publishers, NetGalley, Edelweiss, and other sources for review and giveaways, which will always be disclosed. This does not affect nor influence what I review, recommend, nor my opinion.

This blog also uses affiliate links. When you use these links, it doesn't change anything for you, but I receive a small kickback which helps in supporting this blog.